


By Any Other Name

by Argenteus_Draco



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, But technically an AU, Canon Compliant (Mostly), Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Memory Loss, Past Relationship(s), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, everyone has trust issues, various POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argenteus_Draco/pseuds/Argenteus_Draco
Summary: “Steve," Sam says, "that doesn’t explain anything. Who else is is part of ‘they?’ Why would you send Barnes anywhere that isn’t serious psychological counseling? And why, for the love of God, does fondu make you giggle like a schoolgirl?”In which Bucky reconciles with his past, Steve reconciles with his friends, and Natasha reconciles with herself. Bonus appearances by Sam Wilson and Tony Stark who, surprising no one, is the functional one.





	1. Natasha

****First Natasha books herself a couple of days at an Air B &B in an out of the way town in Maine. There’s a surprisingly brief conversation with the brothers who own the cabin; they glance over her (false) references, ask her about her interest in the area, joke about her name and how she’d look just like the (in)famous Black Widow who shares it if her hair were a little darker, her eyes a little more blue.

“Yeah,” she says dryly. “I get that a lot.”

In the end, she extends the weekend rental to a month and a half, tells anyone who asks that she’s thinking about moving north to escape some family dramatics. She rents a sailboat and a jet ski — why not? what’s left of S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying for it, curtesy of Tony’s hacking skills and some well disguised bank accounts — and finds she likes the quiet out in the middle of the large lake. Sometimes, under the pink-purple-gold glow of sunset, she thinks she could stay here and be happy, until a more rational part of her brain reminds her that it isn't happiness she needs these days, it's safety, and she has a lot more work to do before she'll feel safe staying anywhere. (And besides, what does Natasha Romanoff really know about happiness? Last time she was happy she was nineteen years old and she was with—

She shakes her hair out and decides that maybe it’s time to cut it again. No, she thinks, don’t start with that.)

Next, Natalia buys a house in a nameless mid-west town, close enough to Clint to go for Sunday dinners but not so close that it would compromise his security. She pitches her voice half an octave higher at the estate sale and adopts a light Kasimov accent. She's a recent immigrant here, looking for a new life, meaningful work, maybe even (she giggles like a girl twenty years her junior) a good man. The easiest lies are the ones that aren’t. She stays there three months, quietly disappearing when she's called away on mission, or when Steve thinks he's found what inevitably turns out to be another dead-end lead. 

She stops by the compound for a few weeks (tells her new neighbors that she's going on vacation, she misses the city more than she expected), and then Nat rents a sleek, modern apartment in an LA suburb. She ties her hair up in pony-tails and goes jogging in the morning and plays volleyball in the afternoons and eats dinner at restaurants that specialize in locally sourced vegan dining while sending Steve endless text messages about how badly she wants a damn cheeseburger, even one of his terrible, overcooked ones. She definitely doesn't think she'll be keeping this cover, but it won’t be a problem to just disappear from a place like this. She’s nothing but another pretty face out here; dozens of girls just like her come and go every day. Still, she takes her time about it. She’s not in any rush to return to the east coast and the suddenly much more active New York Triskellion. And really, all considering, the food isn't half bad. 

There's a mission in Berlin, and another visit to Laura and the kids (Clint's away too, but Lila had been begging to see her), before she goes back up to Maine, this time to a permanent safe house in the same town. And then she sets out again, substituting the southeast for the midwest, Seattle for LA, trying on different covers until she finds the one that sticks. The rain in Seattle suits her mood, and it's almost like a vacation until S.H.I.E.L.D. calls her, tells her there's a HYDRA agent last known location two hours out from her trying to flee the country that she needs to intercept, and her face winds up printed in the town's local newspaper for her part in the ensuing motorcycle chase. 

“It was bound to happen eventually,” the tech who’s working on getting the picture taken down from the website version tells her when she arrives back at the compound for debriefing. 

 _Inevitable_ isn’t the word she would have used. In the back of her head, Natalia thinks _nebrezhnyy._

* * *

She knows that something isn’t right as she approaches the Maine safe house. It’s nothing she can identify by sight, but she can feel it, she’s being watched. She grabs her duffle from the backseat of the car and swings it over her shoulder, feels the familiar weight of her glocks, a rifle, even a handful of knives, and digs the keys for the front door out of her pocket. She won’t run. To run would be to show fear, and fear (like happiness) is an emotion Natasha refuses to acknowledge; she knows too well how it can compromise her work.

First glance inside confirms her suspicions. Everything is where she left it, but just slightly out of place. The book on the end table is too close to the corner. The key for the shed is hanging on the middle hook instead of on the right. The glass she left out on the table has too much water in it. She does a sweep of the house, upper and lower floors, finds no one and no other signs of anyone, but the feeling doesn’t shake. Finally she goes back, deposits her bag at the foot of the stairs, hangs her main keys on the left hand hook, and when she turns around again the ghost is there in the kitchen doorway. They both freeze, watching each other. There’s no question in his gaze today; he knows who she is.

“Natalia.” His voice is smooth despite disuse. She turns away again — she’s not worried about him attacking her, he’s had ample time to do that if he’d wanted to — straightens the junk mail she’d collected from the box as she drove in. Bills for electric, water, and internet, addressed to another of the close-but-not-quite-right names she uses undercover, all set up by S.H.I.E.L.D. to make her off-the-grid cabin look like it’s on. She feels like shaking, but her body is too well trained to do it. She only has to pause to steady her voice.

“Did you get that name from a file?”

She doesn’t look around, but she catches his expression in the reflection of the mirror over the key-hooks, the briefest flash of pain before he settles into a blank mask again. He doesn’t answer. She almost smiles, is pretty sure he’ll hear it in her next words even though she tries to keep her tone carefully neutral.

“I asked you a question, James.”

The tension all goes out of him, and out of Natasha along with him. She turns to face him again, sees him start to speak a few times, trying to work out the best thing to say.

“I thought you might not know me either,” he eventually settles on. He fishes a folded piece of paper from his pocket, holds it out towards her — the small town newspaper article from several months back — and continues, “I saw your picture. Then I remembered you from the bridge. I—”

She cuts him off before he can start apologizing. “I knew you.”

There is a prolonged silence after that. The Soldier fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket, the evening sunlight catching on the rills of metal fingers. “Natalia,” he says again. Her breath catches at the name.

“No one calls me that anymore,” she tells him, quick and sharp, an automatic reaction to being off-balance. To her surprise (and when she thinks about it later, great annoyance), it brings the ghost of a smile to the Soldier’s face.

“I don't think… no one else calls me James, either,” he says quietly. “Natalia.” 

* * *

 “I should call Steve.”

They’re sitting on the couch now, not beside one another but not at opposite ends either, a comfortable distance between them. The coffee table is strewn with takeout containers. Natasha ordered what felt like half the menu — it’s a good thing she’s known for splurging, S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t look oddly at the charge — because the Soldier couldn’t make up his mind. He freezes in the process of wiping sauce up with a hunk of bread. 

“Steve.” He says the name slowly, and not with the familiarity he first called Natasha with. Says it again, considering. “Steve. The man from the hellicarrier.”

She nods, watching him from the corner of her eye as she reaches for her drink. He’s quiet, considering. Trying to remember. Looks like it’s giving him a headache.

“You rescued him from the Potomac.” Now it’s his turn to nod silently. “Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“He’s looking for you. Steve, I mean.” She glances across the couch at James. His eyes are wide, alarmed.

“Why?”

She gives him a sideways sort-of-smile. “Don’t know.”

“He called me Bucky.”

“It’s your name.” She puts her drink down and picks up her phone, does a quick search of the Smithsonian’s website, passes it to the Soldier. “James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Stupid name. I’m not using it.”

He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t react at all, but she didn’t expect him to. He’s silent as he scrolls through the biography. After a while, Natasha scoots closer and leans forward to see what he’s stopped on. It’s a photo of James and Steve taken in 1944. Both are grinning, celebrating a victory. Steve looks the same. Bucky… she thinks she can see bright, vivacious Bucky layered underneath gentle, stoic James, underneath the fierce, long-suffering Soldier. If he’d smile properly, maybe she could tell.

“I could help you cut your hair,” she offers. She always feels more like herself when she can go back to looking like herself (whatever she decides that is).

He reaches up to touch his hair with his right hand. Runs his fingers through it. Continues to stare at the photo. Shakes his head slowly. Scrolls up so the smiling faces aren’t staring back at him anymore, hands the phone back to Natasha.

“I went to the museum,” he tells her. “I thought it would help, but…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely, looking for the right words to describe what’s going on in his head. 

“Three more questions for every answer,” she says. He looks up gratefully, relieved to know that she understands, and nods.

“I went to the museum and I remembered all of it. Azzano and Klausberg and Gabe’s French lessons and Jacques and I taking bombs apart and Jim chewing us out for talking too much over the radios and Falsworth trying to teach me to drive a car and Dugan’s terrible, bawdy, off-key singing and… it was too much. Think I blacked out. When I came to I was sitting on a bench and a woman I didn’t recognize was trying to offer me water, and I ran.”

Natasha listens to him, knows what it’s like not to be able to trust your own memories, not to know if it’s real or something created for you. After a moment, she draws in a shaky sort of breath and asks him, “So what can I do?”

Silence. Then:

“Don’t call Steve. Not yet.”

She drops the phone onto the table. Doesn’t pick it up again for a week.

* * *

_Nebrezhnyy_.

They’re out in what passes for a town in this part of the country. A church, a block and a half of storefronts, a village green lined with benches, an ice-cream parlor. The Soldier is flabbergasted by the array of flavors. 

“What can I get for you?”

He stares blankly.

“Chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry?” Natasha provides.

Recognition. “Chocolate.”

Before the woman behind the counter can go on about the six different varieties they carry (“All made right here, of course: Swiss, Rocky Road, Peanut Butter Swirl, Mocha Latte, S’mores, Death By…” she supposes he might get a kick out of that one) Natasha points to a simple, rich dark chocolate for Bucky and orders a scoop of butter pecan for herself. They walk out arm-in-arm, go sit on one of the benches. It’s a crisp fall day, their coats and hats aren’t out of place, they don’t attract many stares. James eats his ice-cream in small, hesitant bites. Natasha finishes hers long before he does, then searches her bag for something else to occupy her hands while they sit.

“It’s so quiet,” he says after a while. The wind ruffles his hair below his baseball cap. 

“It’s easy to disappear in a place like this,” Natasha agrees. “People are friendly. Assume the best, don’t ask questions. You can hide in plain sight.”

He nods, takes another minuscule bite of ice-cream. She’s seen Steve eat the same way, the habit of savoring a rare treat. Her fingers find a tin of perfume. She reapplies the oils to the insides of her wrists, behind her ears. A traitorous part of her mind wants her to continue speaking, to ask James if he’ll stay with her, if he’ll let her help him to blend in and build covers and identities of his own. It’s not a perfect life, exactly, but it’s the only kind she’s ever known.

(He deserves better.)

Tires screech on the street in front of them. A flash of bright turquoise — a child’s coat — Natasha leaps off the bench before she’s done thinking, pushes the kid out of the way of the car and rolls to the sidewalk on the other side, doesn’t even realize that James was right behind her until she feels him trying to tug the kid out of her grip and into a sitting position. The girl — six, maybe seven, no bigger than Lila Barton — draws in a harsh, whistling breath. She’s having an asthma attack.

“’S’okay,” she hears James say. He gets her settled, puts one of her hands against his chest so she can brace herself, hold herself upright. “Breathe with me. Nice and even. Deep breaths. ’S’okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

Natasha pushes herself to her feet, looks around. Two adults running toward them from up the street. One of them is holding another child. One of them is holding an inhaler. She assumes they’re the kid’s parents, and they thank James and Natasha over and over, a little bit breathless themselves, as they administer her medication. Natasha says “You’re welcome,” on both of their behalf’s. James sits back and waits until he’s satisfied the girl is breathing normally again, and then gets silently to his feet, avoiding everyone’s eye except the little girl’s.

Natasha looks around again, swallows hard. 

From the green, someone filmed the whole thing with their cell phone camera.

 _Nebrezhnyy_.

* * *

“You need to leave.”

Natasha’s packing as she talks. Food from the cabinets, chilled water bottles, changes of clothing, bandages and gloves to help disguise the Soldier’s metal hand, glasses and hooded jackets to help disguise his face. It’s been one-hundred-and-sixteen minutes since the video hit the web, and it’s spreading fast. From the angle it was shot, no one will recognize her, she’s not much more than a red-haired-blur in a brown jacket, but James is steadier and clearer, even in the pixelated cell-phone footage. She doesn’t have the equipment to trace the source and take down the video herself, and she can’t alert S.H.I.E.L.D. to take it down the way they did her photo in the paper, because then S.H.I.E.L.D. will see it, and she needs to give James as much time as she can before that happens.

The last thing she does is scribble an address and a date onto the inside cover of the book he’d been reading. It’s the first time she’s given it out, even Clint doesn’t know the location of the safe-house. “Just in case,” she tells James, pushing the book at him. “I should be back here in a few months, if they don’t send me out on mission. But frankly, I suggest you get further away.”

He nods solemnly. He’s a ghost, she reminds herself. She shouldn’t worry about his ability to disappear.

She wants to tell him, Find me again when you can, wherever I am. It would be so easy to make it into an order, albeit a well-meaning one, but she won’t do that to him.

Forty minutes later, Natasha is alone in the safe-house. She paces the living room, unable to sit still. At 22:09 she goes outside to walk the perimeter. Comes back in through the kitchen, starts to make herself a sandwich when she hears her phone vibrate against the glass coffee table. She races back into the living room to grab it. It’s Steve.

**Got a lead.**

The phone buzzes again as another message arrives. It’s a link to the video.

She hesitates long enough to make it look like she watched it twice. **Could be anyone.**  

Buzz: **It’s him. We’re running a trace now.**

Of course it is, she thinks. It’s definitely Bucky who knew, without any hesitation, how to take care of a kid having an asthma attack. Probably used to do it for Steve. He even sounded different, a little Brooklyn drawl creeping into his words as he’d tried to calm the girl. James doesn't have that accent.

She texts him back: **It’s useless if you can’t find the original source.**

Three minutes of silence. She stares at the phone while she waits for a response. Her chest is just starting to get tight when the three little dots appear that indicate Steve is typing again. When the message comes through, it’s as coordinates.

Natasha types quickly. **I’m in the area. I’ll check it out.**

She waits four and a half hours (spends most of it doing more restless pacing; she tried to sleep for a period but the bed felt suddenly over-large now that she’s alone again) before she texts him back, figures he’ll be awake and waiting for her response even though it’s well past 2:00 by that point. 

 **Nothing,** she writes. **If he was here, he’s long gone.**

* * *

  **Interlude I:**

“You could at least recognize me.”

The face isn’t familiar. There’s no name that comes forward when he looks at her. But… there’s a scent, something light and floral and totally out of place in this sterile government facility, that brings a flash of memory: pink lips turned upwards in a small smile, warm sunlight, brisk wind with the promise of snow, whispers of Russian… 

Can’t place the memory. Memories? The longer he’s out of cryo, the more comes back to him, the harder it is to tell. Maybe he’s seen her more than one place. Backdrop of green-turning-amber oak trees. Gray concrete walls, beige mat on the floor. Blue waters far below her, cross-hairs obscuring her face.

Target. Mission. 

There’s a name. Just out of reach. She must have a name.

N—


	2. Steve

****Bucky never has any of the culture shock that Steve suffered waking up in 2012. He’s not sure how he expected his friend to react, but now that Bucky has been out of cryostasis for five months and home in New York for two, now that Bucharest and Leipzig and Siberia are far behind them, and Bucky is (mostly) back in control of his own mind, he supposed he had expected to get at least some sort of reaction out of his friend.

“Anything look familiar yet?”

Bucky shakes his head and pulls the hood of his sweat-shirt closer around his face. He’s not actually cold — can’t be cold, they’d run all sorts of tests before releasing him from the medical lab in Wakanda, and they'd confirmed that Bucky won’t feel the sudden onset of a bad New York winter any more than Steve — he’s just trying to hide. 

“You lived a block over from here, you know.”

“You got beat up in that alley,” comes the dry response.

“I got beat up in most alleys in this neighborhood.”

“You never learned when to quit.”

Steve sighs. If there was any hint of humor in Bucky’s tone, he might have suspected that they were still talking about the 1940s, but there isn’t. He’s not Bucky today. He’s not the Soldier either, which is a step in the right direction, but he’s still someone Steve doesn’t know.

“Come on,” he says, heading toward their car. He hates driving in the city, but the privacy that a car affords makes it worth it. Besides, his usual alternative is the subway, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to see how Bucky deals with trains just yet (or how he deals with seeing Bucky on trains; it's one and the same in his mind). “Let’s get back.”

It’s a forty-six minute silent ride back up to midtown Manhattan. Steve keeps half an eye on Bucky as traffic crawls along. Bucky mostly stares at the glovebox. Every few minutes his mouth works as though there’s something that he wants to say, but never actually speaks. Steve fiddles with the radio around the thirty minute mark. Sam left it tuned to an R&B station. Bucky makes a face and turns it off.

They reach Avengers Tower (no longer full of Avengers, or at least, not the same team who had been there before Steve gave up being Captain America), park the car, and spend another three minutes waiting for the elevator. Steve tries to break the silence.

“Lunch?”

Bucky shrugs. They skip the kitchens and go straight up to the gym, where Bucky’s single-minded focus might actually do him some good. Steve’s official assignment, after all, is to find out exactly what the Winter Soldier is capable of. (Or as official as they get these days, technically Fury only made a _suggestion,_ since technically Steve is a criminal and _definitely_ not employed by S.H.I.E.L.D.) They spar hand to hand for a while, until they’re both winded and Steve is seeing stars curtesy of one too many hits from a metal hand.

To Steve’s credit, Bucky only landed one solid hit, but it turns out that one is enough without the padding of his helmet to spread and absorb the impact.

“That looks like it hurt,” Tony remarks later, in his usual glib tone, while they’re reviewing the video footage. Bucky’s in the next room making coffee despite the hour — still drinks it black with one sugar — but it’s not like he sleeps much anyway. Steve either, for that matter.

“You have no idea,” Steve replies, somewhat distractedly. He’s listening for sounds in the kitchen. He knows that Bucky is moving around, hears cabinets and drawers being opened, but not his friend’s footsteps. He’s a ghost, Natasha told him once. He certainly moves like one.

“Actually I have a pretty good idea.” Tony taps the screen, zooms in and manipulates the playback to focus on Bucky’s left arm. “I rebuilt that thing, I know exactly what it’s capable of.”

Bucky comes back with two steaming mugs. He puts one in front of Steve and takes the second one with him to the window, stands there and looks out over the city. He almost looks relaxed, except that his left hand is curled into a tight fist. Steve puts the tablet down on the table and goes to join him.

“Something on your mind, Buck?”

Thirty-eight seconds of silence. Then:

“There’s someone you should call, but…” Bucky sighs, defeated. “I can’t remember her name.”

* * *

The next morning, he’s Bucky again.

“Pancakes on the counter.” He points to the laden plate with the spatula while he adds more batter to the pan. “Blueberry. The syrup is terrible though, don’t use it.”

Steve gets over his shock in a matter of seconds and grins at his friend. “Feeling better then?”

“As well as I’ve been this century.” He tests the edges of the pancake and flips it easily. “Now there’s something I never expected to be saying. We were born in 1917, and we’ve lived in two centuries. We’re a hundred years old, Steve. Can you believe it?”

Steve is spared answering (“Excuse you, I’m only ninty-nine,”) by the ringing of his phone. Bucky points at the pancakes again.

“Eat first,” he says firmly, adding the last one to the pile and pushing the plate toward Steve. “I don’t want you fainting on whatever mission they want to send you out on because you didn’t eat.”

“We don’t have missions anymore,” Steve reminds him. “Officially we don’t even have an organization.”

“What’s all that paperwork you left on the table for, then?”

“Just wrapping up loose ends.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and points at the plate again. Steve sits obediently at the counter and takes half the stack. The syrup _is_ terrible, tastes like food dye and burnt sugar instead of like maple, but he hates dry pancakes so he pours it on heavily anyway. Bucky gets the milk from the refrigerator and a couple of glasses before joining him. The phone vibrates against the countertop again.

“I said don’t answer that,” Bucky says around a mouthful of pancake, as Steve reaches for the offending device. “This is worse than you having your sketch pads at the table, you know.”

“Or you with your books,” Steve retorts, turning his attention to the phone. It’s not business, just Sam. **In NYC for the day. Grab a beer later?**

He glances up at Bucky, who suddenly has an expression on his face that reminds Steve of a startled rabbit. He raises an eyebrow, but Bucky doesn’t notice, so he waves a hand in front of Bucky’s face instead and, when that also fails, pokes him in the shoulder with his fork, which finally jolts him into a reaction. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Sorry, I just… I think there was a…” and he trails off, his mind well ahead of his mouth. He’s remembered something, Steve thinks, and stuffs another large forkful of pancake into his mouth with a wide grin while he replies to Sam.

**Meet you at 18:00.**

* * *

Steve spends the morning going over the old reports Bucky had mentioned while Bucky disappears into his bedroom to look for whatever Steve had reminded him of over breakfast. They make sandwiches for lunch, have another sparring session, and then Steve goes for a run while Bucky makes use of the shooting range in the basement (under the eye of several security cameras, as he always is if Steve’s out of the building, sometimes when he’s in anyway) because apparently target practice is something Bucky finds relaxing. He comes back to the Tower and finds that his friend has already finished and gone upstairs again, and he returns to their shared apartment space to find Bucky tucked into the window ledge with a worn paper-back propped open against his knees.

(He never used to like heights, it was always Steve who’d be testing his limits, climbing bridges and rooftops and Bucky followed him of course, but never made a habit of it himself.)

“Alright, Buck?”

He nods. Steve goes to take a shower. Comes back and finds Bucky in the same place, still staring at the same dog-eared page. He leans against the doorframe and repeats his previous question. Bucky looks up and glares at him, pure petulance, and Steve laughs.

“You should change,” he says, indicating the workout gear that Bucky’s still wearing. “We’re already going to be late to meet Sam, and you smell like the gymnasium.”

“Not going,” Bucky tells him. 

“Come on.” He crosses the room, gives Bucky an encouraging, totally ineffectual nudge. “You’ve been cooped up all day, usually you’re itching to get out of the Tower.”

“Not today.”

Now he’s worried. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, gesturing with the book in his hands. “Which is precisely the problem. You said ‘books’ this morning and I was reading this before— Before.” He doesn’t need to specify the time he means; the implication, the weight of the imagined capital B says it well enough. “Must have been, it was with my notebooks, but I don’t— I can’t remember— There’s something important here, something I must have realized or remembered or— don’t look at me like that, Steve, I’m right on the cusp of something, I just can’t get it.”

Steve hesitates, reaches for his phone. “Alright. Let me just tell Sam—”

“You should go.” Bucky gives him a lopsided half-smile. “You’ve been cooped up with me for days.”

“We went down to Brooklyn _yesterday_.”

“And you didn’t enjoy a second of it.” He turns back to his book and, with just the barest hint of bitterness, adds, “I don’t need a babysitter, Stevie.”

Part of him wants to say, Sometimes you do. It’s my turn to take care of you now. Another, mostly guilty-feeling part, makes him put a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder and say simply, “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

Another small hesitation, but Steve wants to believe his friend is (or will be) okay. “Right.” He starts to get his keys and jacket and head for the door, but keeps talking. “I should be back before nine, I think there’s still leftover spaghetti in the kitchen if you want it for dinner. Should be that cereal you like in the cupboard, too, but make sure you actually have some milk with it, I don’t want to come back and find out you’ve just been eating junk all night.”

“Yes, Sarah,” Bucky says without looking up.

Steve shuts the door behind him. Pauses in the hallway, considers asking Tony to beam the security feeds to his phone so he can check in.

But that seems like an invasion of privacy, a betrayal of the fragile trust they’ve managed to rebuild. 

He pulls his jacket on and heads for the elevator. 

* * *

It’s closing on 23:00 when Steve finally gets home. The lights are all off. Steve flicks them on in the main room, throws his jacket over the chair, kicks off his boots, and is relieved not to see Bucky still sitting in the same position Steve left him in. There’s a better-than-fifty-percent chance his friend is still awake, so he doesn’t bother being quiet. Either Bucky’s going to wander out and ask how his evening went, or he’s going to wander out and yell at Steve for waking him up.

When neither one of those things happens, he starts to get worried. Bucky has never been a particularly sound sleeper, even before the war. Came from being the oldest of four (five, if you counted Steve), always being half alert to his siblings’ needs. He checks the kitchen. The spaghetti and the cereal are both untouched. There’s a cup of coffee on the counter, gone completely cold, and someone shuffled through the reports.

“Bucky?”

No answer. Trust be damned, Steve decides to check his friend’s bedroom. He’s definitely going to get yelled at if he wakes Bucky up now.

He pushes the door open, flips on the lights. The bed is still made (Bucky still makes it with hospital corners the way Steve’s ma taught them both). He was never in it.

Alarms start going off in Steve’s head. His fault. He shouldn’t have left Bucky alone while he was working through something, while he was vulnerable. He’s supposed to be protecting Bucky, taking care of him, helping him, sheltering him, and he’s completely failed. 

Well, maybe not completely. Steve got him home to New York after all, and the city is a big place, but not immeasurable. He’s just going to need some help. Fortunately, he’s pretty sure he knows where to find it.

“You seen Bucky recently?” he asks without preamble. Tony raises an eyebrow at him from across the lab.

“Thought he was with you. And I thought I asked you to knock.”

Steve swears, as loudly and colorfully as he knows how. Tony raises both eyebrows this time.

“Language, Cap,” he says with a smirk.

“Not funny.” Tony, fortunately, takes the hint, and he cooperates fully when Steve asks, “I need to know if he’s in the Tower.”

They access the security feeds. Bucky’s nowhere on it. Tony points to the camera showing the garage.

“Motorcycle missing.”

Steve bites back another choice phrase learned from the Howling Commandos and asks Tony, “Can you tell me when it disappeared?”

“I’ll do you one better.” He makes some gestures that pull up a map on the floating screen, overlays the highway markings, and finally the little red blip that Steve assumes indicates Bucky; the bike must be GPS tagged. “Okay, you got any guesses why he’s headed for Massachusetts?” 

“None at all,” Steve replies, though he’d bet money it has something to do with that damn book. He regrets teasing Bucky about his reading habits that morning. He watches the dot continue to move north along I-95 for a moment before he tells Tony, “I’m going after him. Call me if anything changes.”

* * *

The red blip stops moving about two hours after Steve starts driving. “Got an address for you, Cap,” Tony drawls over the car’s speakers. “Been stopped there almost forty minutes. It’s just trees on the satellite image, but the coordinates matched some old S.H.I.E.L.D. records. Safe house, like where Clint lives, but more woodsy and far enough north that humans shouldn’t inhabit it during the winter. Personal opinion. Any ideas?”

“No,” Steve answers. It wasn’t part of the notes he’d left out and Bucky wouldn’t have had access to the files on Tony’s in-house network, let alone anything connected to S.H.I.E.L.D., which makes him wonder if it's information held over from his time as the Winter Soldier. “How much farther?”

The computer on the dashboard comes to life and offers him directions. “I really hate when you do that.”

“You’re welcome, Cap,” comes the smug response. The bluetooth cuts out and the music comes back up.  Steve barely hears it. He studies the display. It’s going to be another five-maybe-six hours of driving, but at least the pieces are starting to fit together. Natasha may not have been able to find him at the time, but Steve is still pretty certain that Bucky’s been to this area before. He wishes he had some better idea of what he was walking into. He wishes he weren’t alone.

(He considers calling Natasha, seeing if she is any closer than he is, but there’s no reason to think she’d answer him. She hasn’t answered any of his calls since the airport.)

He turns the music up louder and tries not to think too much about what might be going wrong. He’s driving well over the speed limit, and he’s glad the highways are deserted. He makes only one stop for gas and worries the whole time that Bucky will be gone again by the time he reaches the safe house, that he’ll have discovered the GPS and destroyed it, making him impossible to track. 

It’s not quite dawn when Steve arrives at the destination Tony provided. The motorcycle is parked beside a car that's little more than a darker silhouette against the shadows; once his own headlights cut out, it’s pitch black. The front door is locked. Steve circles the house until he finds a window, lets himself into the kitchen and waits for a moment to see if anyone heard him enter. He looks around the rooms on the ground floor, finds Bucky’s backpack dropped by the coffee table, and the old book beside it. He moves silently upstairs. The first door off the hall is slightly open, and Steve approaches it cautiously, puts a hand against the wood to push it open. 

“Buck…”

The name dies on his tongue when he gets a proper look into the room. Bucky’s there, sprawled on the large bed, sleeping more peacefully than Steve has seen him do since 1942. And curled demurely up at his side, her head pillowed on his chest and his metal arm wrapped protectively around her waist, is Natasha.

* * *

**Interlude II**

“So what do I call you?”

Green eyes peer curiously up at him through long dark lashes. “Come on.” She cocks her head to one side, misinterpreting his silence, and smiles slightly, teasing. “I can’t just call you _Soldat_ all the time. What’s your name?”

He blinks at her. Name. He must— shouldn’t he? But he doesn’t remember the last time someone called him by name.

“I…”

The girl’s smile falters. She has a name, though it isn’t used all that frequently in the Red Room. She’s Natalia and he’s— he’s… 

“Didn’t you have a name before you came here?” 

Before the Red Room is like looking through a fractured window made of frosted glass; even HYDRA is blurry. There are images there, scent memories, the chatter of people and cars on a busy street, indistinct and fleeting. He tries to think, tries to stare through the broken window, tries to listen for the faraway voices of his past. There's a boy climbing a rickety fire escape, urging him to follow. _C’mon, hurry up, B—_ But the name floats away before he can grasp it. 

Natalia looks at him, some emotion he can’t name twisting her expression into tight, anxious lines. Suddenly she turns on her heel and marches decisively out of their briefing room, knowing that he’ll follow obediently behind her. “Well,” she says, firmly, “Let’s go find out.”

Find out. No, that’s forbidden. He knows; he’s tried before. The threatening whir of the machine occupies a large part of his mind, leaving just enough to be aware of her movements, quick steps down back hallways, heels clicking authoritatively against the concrete floors, through doors that require access codes, to a computer terminal and then, with the Soldier standing guard at the door, to rifle through a locked filing cabinet from which she takes a single piece of paper, tucks it up her sleeve, winks at him, and returns to the business of preparing for their mission as though nothing unusual had just happened.

She pulls it out three days later when they are alone again, hands it to him. “James,” she says, in a low, breathy whisper. “Your name is James.”

He repeats “James,” testing the name, the shape of it, the feel of it on his tongue. Sounds right, especially in her voice. 

But there’s something missing, too.


	3. Bucky

****He wakes to raised voices, which makes him startle and reach for a weapon that isn't there. (Staff Sergeant Can-picture-his-face-but-can’t-remember-his-name drilled that into all of them, always keep your weapon ready, never know when you'll need it— or did that come from HYDRA?) Tries the other side of the bed, finds a glock tucked beneath the pile of pillows on Natalia’s side and draws it out but it's wrong, all wrong in his hand, too small and light and just _wrong_ , shouldn't need it. Metal fingers can and do crush the barrel and slide. Scrape and crunch of steel echoes inside his head, makes him feel like his skull is trying to split in two, until another sound drowns it out, higher pitched, almost keening: his own voice? Can't tell—

Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets. Natalia, quick and light, dancer’s grace, no wasted movement, just like how they train, and Steve following her, heavier, steady rhythm—

_Steve._

Head drops into his hands and he makes another involuntary noise, low and rumbling this time, as the events of the last two days come rushing back to him. Knows why it feels like there’s an earthquake in his head, at any rate. Just brought the two halves of himself crashing together. 

* * *

Opens his eyes to find Natalia kneeling in front of him, her hands around his, trying to ease the ruined gun out of his grip. He lets her take it and put it on the ground beside her, draws in a shaky breath, leans forward and rests his forehead against hers.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Thought I was… maybe Krausberg… Didn’t mean to… _prosti_ …”

She doesn’t say anything, but she does reach up and stroke his hair. From the doorway, Steve clears his throat. Bucky looks up at him over the crown of Natasha’s head. She puts a cup of warm tea in his hands, which are starting to shake, to replace the gun. Smokey-smelling Russian caravan, brewed strong and turned the color of caramel by a splash of milk. 

(Why does he put milk in his tea but not his coffee?)

Steve clears his throat again. Looks at Bucky. Says: “I think I'm owed some explanations now.”

“Ask nicely, Rogers,” Natalia replies, before he can get his tongue wrapped around words of his own. There's a cold edge to her voice, and there's ice in Steve’s gaze, too. They've been arguing. He turns his attention back to his tea, sips it gently, hadn't realized his throat was so raw until the warm drink helps soothe it. How long was he screaming? He doesn't remember having any nightmares. Usually they're bright and vivid and _real_ and that's how he remembers _—_

“I'm done asking nicely.” Steve continues to glare daggers into Natalia’s back. “He was fine until whatever made him think he had to come up here, which I assume you had something to do with—!”

“He was fine?” Natalia asks, all deadly calm. “Or he was Bucky?”

Steve blinks at her. Doesn't understand how they're two different things; how could he? Steve’s only ever been one person, even when he was Captain America it didn't really change him. There's a long, tense silence between the three of them. Natalia gets to her feet, runs her hands affectionately through his hair again. 

“I'm going out,” she tells them, and he nods, and Steve tries once more to bore holes through her with his eyes. “Shopping. And food. Text me if you think of anything you want.” A small smile lifts one corner of her lips. “I’ll pick up some ice cream.”

She turns and finds Steve blocking the door with his arm. Narrows her eyes and meets him stare for stare. “Move, Rogers.”

“Not until you give me some answers.”

She takes a step closer, threatening in the way of large, predatory cats. Steve doesn't back down, and neither does she, just kicks her leg out, catching Steve in the back of the knee and sending him crashing to the ground. She steps over him without another word. Footsteps retreat down the hall and out the front door. 

Bucky grins into his tea, raising the mug to hide the expression from Steve. Thinks to himself, _That’s my girl._

* * *

“He's not angry with you. Not really.”

He says it because he believes it to be true. Steve doesn’t have the kind of bitter temper that lingers and boils; Steve is a flashpoint, and he wears his heart on his sleeve. (But then again, that had been Steve before the war. It is possible that, in this case, Natasha knows him better. The thought makes Bucky’s stomach turn uncomfortably.)

“Steve has plenty of reason to be angry with me,” she says in reply, sounds like she believes it's true, too. “I've lied a lot. Mostly by omission, but I'm not sure there’s a difference to him. In his position, I’d be angry with me, too.”

“You were trying to protect him,” he tells her. “He’ll understand that.”

There’s a brief silence while they put away the last of the groceries. The little kitchen is well stocked for probably the first time since Natasha moved in. The ability to cook wasn’t deemed a necessary skill in the Red Room. Idly, he wonders what it would be like, what they would both be like, if he’d known her in New York, if he’d taught her that instead of— Then she looks at him, brings him back to their present reality, and says, “But I wasn't. I was being selfish, protecting myself. Old habits die hard,” she adds dryly. 

For a fraction of a second, it looks like she might say more, but Steve chooses that moment to appear in the doorway and Natalia immediately looks away. 

“Got you these,” she says, picking up the last large bag and tossing it to Steve. He raises an eyebrow as he goes through the contents: long sleeved flannel shirts and tee shirts to go underneath, khaki trousers, an assortment of hats, gloves, and scarves, and on the bottom (Steve turns a bit pink around the ears when he pulls it out) a pack of boxer briefs printed with the Stars and Stripes. 

“What the hell, Natasha?”

“Figured you’d want a change of clothes at some point,” she answers, at the same time that Bucky turns an incredulous expression on Steve and says, “Language!” in a tone that would have made Sarah Rogers proud (and which Natasha, for some reason, finds exceptionally funny). Steve just rolls his eyes at both of them, and drops the bag on the nearest counter. 

“Left a coat in the closet for you, too,” Natasha adds, once she’s done laughing. 

“I wasn't exactly planning to stay,” Steve says. His voice is still strained, overly polite. “You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.”

Natasha shrugs. “Fine. No one’s stopping you if you want to leave.”

Steve’s eyes flick to Bucky. So do Natalia’s. He looks between them for a moment, thinking about New York and how the city has changed, how he’s changed, how the crowds of strangers make him feel penned in instead of welcomed, how he feels like everyone is watching him all the time… then his eyes come back to hers, and he says softly, “I’d like to stay, I think. At least for a little while.”

She smiles in answer, a small, hesitant sort of thing, and nods. He looks back at his friend. Steve’s expression is one of surprise for a minute, until he blinks and leans against the doorframe and turns his gaze back to Natasha.

“I guess we’re staying then.”

He says it lightly, but his blue eyes are like shards of ice, reminds Bucky of Siberian winters and dance studios with freezing concrete floors and mountains in the alps and _cold cold cold_ —

“Buck?”

Realizes he’s standing there with his left hand raised, frozen in the act of brushing hair of out his face. Natalia is watching him curiously. Steve is suddenly in front of him (fights the instinct to strike him for getting so close), has one hand on each of Bucky’s arms. Expression is worried, but his eyes are warmer now.

“Yeah,” he mutters, speaking in the direction of his boots. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Pause, then: “Sorry.”

Steve takes half a step back and glances at Natasha, but her expression gives nothing away.

A few hours later, it occurs to Bucky that he answered Steve in German.

* * *

“She’s not angry with you,” Bucky says the next afternoon. “But she will be if you keep trying to pry.”

They’re outside, returning from a run around the ice-covered lake. He loves that Steve still loves to run, and that Natalia still loves dance. She’s just visible through a window on the second floor, balanced on one foot, stretching the other to point straight out behind her. If she is aware of them watching, she doesn’t show it as she moves through her exercises.

Steve shakes his head, says, “Ballet,” as if he can’t quite believe it. Then, catching Bucky’s eye, he explains, “It’s just… I thought I knew her.”

* * *

Third day brings icy rain in the morning that makes his shoulder ache deep in the muscles where metal meets flesh. Natalia laughs at him when he refuses to get out of bed, heaps the blankets on top of him, and goes downstairs to make them tea. She’s still smiling when she comes back up the stairs. 

“Steve's cooking breakfast,” she tells him. Bucky groans. 

“Steve’s gonna burn something,” he says. “Probably himself.” Wants to burrow deeper into the warm blankets and reluctantly pushes them away to go help. He eyes the mug she brought him for a minute, thinks, adds, “Thank you, but I need coffee in order to deal with Steve trying to cook.”

Fourth day rain turns to snow. Natasha brings the blankets downstairs, Steve brings firewood inside while Bucky checks the flu, and they spend the afternoon comfortably settled in the living room popping popcorn, reading, remembering and telling Natalia stories about the Howling Commandos. 

“Thought this was what it would be like when we came home,” Bucky says sleepily, sitting on the floor and leaning back against Steve’s legs. “Better late than never, I guess.”

Steve goes momentarily stiff behind him, probably wouldn't even notice if he was wearing anything heavier than a tee shirt. Clears his throat, says, “I don't know what I imagined coming home would be like, Buck, but it definitely wasn't this.”

Doesn't know what to respond to that. Doesn't know what to say for most of the fifth day (sunlight glints off unbroken snow-banks, blown as high as his hip in some places), which puts Steve on edge again. Hovers around the edges anywhere he goes in the house until Natasha eventually corners him. 

“Leave him, Steve,” he hears her say from the next room. “Give him space.”

Pacing. Never gets more than halfway to the door. “You don't know him like I do. I can help.”

“You don't know what's going on inside his head.”

“And you do?”

Pause. “Wish I didn't.”

Footsteps draw up abruptly short. “Natasha—”

“I could use some space myself, Steve.”

Another silence, longer this time. Wants to go and thank her, wants to tell Steve he’ll be alright, wants to apologize to both of them, can't sort out the right words for any of it. He remains standing by the window, lost in his jumbled, broken thoughts and flashes of the Winter Soldier’s memories (harsh fluorescent lights make him think he’s back in the bunker facility, so he flips the switch to off and throws the curtains open to let the sunlight inside instead) until a new sound breaks through them: scrape of metal on pavement. He looks out the window expecting to see some sort of mangled wreck being pushed down the one lane street leading to the safe house (because that’s the sort of absurdity that makes up his life now), but it’s only Steve shoveling out the driveway. Comes in hours later sweaty and breathing hard but not wheezing like Bucky remembers, and that's good, maybe the one good thing to come of the serum—

Acknowledges Steve as he walks past with a nod and goes back to stirring his coffee. Third cup he’s made that night, because it’s something familiar, feels like he’s in control when he’s cooking, even something as simple as a cup of black coffee.

Steve comes downstairs again when the sky is beginning to turn bluish-pink with pre-dawn light. He stops in the doorway, trying to keep his distance and obviously struggling. After a moment, asks, “Alright, Buck?”

He shrugs. “Didn't know what to make for breakfast.”

Steve looks at the spread he’s assembled on the kitchen table and counters. “So you made…?”

“Everything.”

“Right.”

Five long nervous seconds. Bucky finally looks up, meets Steve’s eye, and tries a smile, which is hesitantly returned. Shoulders relax; he finds himself mirroring the motion. Steve takes the plate that Bucky holds out to him and starts to fill it. They eat in silence, but a more comfortable one than they’ve shared the last twenty-four hours. He hears Natalia stir upstairs, creaking floorboards while she does her usual exercises, shower running, dresser drawers sliding open. Sun’s up properly when she finally joins them. Looks around the kitchen, and even she can’t keep the surprise off her face.

“So this is why you never came up to bed,” she says, in a tone that's half exasperated, half impressed. Then, inspecting the dishes further: “Oh my God. Did you make me _syrniki_?”

He shrugs. “Tried to. Didn’t have the right flour.”

She takes one of the dumplings and shoves it into her mouth whole. He makes a face. “I can warm them up.”

“They’re good cold.” 

“Honestly, you're as bad as Steve.”

She puts two more on a plate and reaches for the French toast. “What did I do to deserve you, James?”

His response — “Who said that you did?” — tumbles from his mouth before he has a chance to think about the words.

Natalia laughs, a real, genuine laugh at his teasing, and damn if the way her eyes light up isn’t the most beautiful thing he’s seen in seventy-two years.

“I have to admit,” Steve says slowly, carefully, “you two flirting with each other is… weird.”

Bucky ducks his head in the silence that follows, embarrassed and not certain why. It's still a surprise to him to have this kind of banter come so naturally, but Steve knows him, Steve knows what he was like better than he does. 

Natasha, for her part, just raises an eyebrow at him as she pulls out the third chair to sit down. “We’re sleeping together, Rogers,” she says. “One thing generally precedes the other.”

Steve coughs and blushes but pushes ahead anyway. “Yeah, still trying to wrap my head around that one, too.”

“Well you see, Steve, when a man and a woman— or two women, two men, it’s the 21st century, who am I to judge—”

“I’m just saying,” Steve cuts in, raising his voice to speak over her, “you two are awfully chummy considering what happened in D.C. and Odessa.”

He remembers Odessa. He remembers warm air blowing in off the Black Sea. He remembers his orders, eliminate a HYDRA asset who had become a liability. He remembers the static over the radio, getting the word that the target was approaching from the east, remembers setting up near the cliffs where he could make the hit look more like an accident, remembers the crunch of gravel under his boot, remembers…

“Natalia…” Name comes out as half a whisper, she doesn’t hear him. 

“Stop,” she says, glaring at Steve, a tight, clipped command.

Steve never was good at taking orders.

“No.”

Steve never learned when to quit.

“Dammit, Natasha, I don’t understand why you won’t just answer me!”

“Natalia.” He tries to interject again, but her focus is on Steve.

“I am not obligated to explain myself to anyone.” 

“Why does everything about you has to be a God-damned mystery?”

“My past is my own, Steve.”

“Even to your friends?”

“Especially.” Voice falls into a low, dangerous whisper. “Whatever you think you know—”

“Clearly I don’t know anything about you!”

“Then don’t presume to know what it meant for me. To me.”

“Natalia!”

They both stop and look at him, and Natasha's expression is composed as always but Steve realizes what he’s said as soon as he meets Bucky’s eye and his face falls and Bucky _knows_ but he forces the words out anyway.

“Natalia… What happened in Odessa?”

Silence.

He _knows._

“Oh God…” Remembers the burst of heat when the engine exploded, remembers approaching the car and seeing the flicker of gold light on copper hair. How had he not noticed then? How had he managed to so calmly line up the shot like she was nothing more than scenery? 

Steve looks how he feels, little bit sick and more than a little bit broken. He pushes his chair away from the table. “I— I’ll go.” Hesitates despite his words. “I—” Unfinished — what? Apologies? Pleas? — hang in the air. Bucky tries to meet his eyes, but Steve can’t or won’t look at him. He spares a glance for Natasha, looks away again, and quickly disappears. Bucky listens to his footsteps, to the door slamming closed behind him, to the silence he leaves in his wake.

“James.” Natasha’s voice is firm, but not unkind, an anchor he can cling to in the sudden storm. She reaches out and takes his face in her hands, turning his chin and making him look at her. He expects to hear what everyone tries to tell him, that it wasn’t his fault, as if he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, as if he hadn’t been the cause of her pain. Instead, what she says is, “I forgave you a long time ago.”

Somehow, that matter-of-fact sentiment, the simple acknowledgment of his past, is immensely comforting. 

They pack up the remainder of breakfast. They clean the kitchen while she tells him her side of the Odessa mission, he flicks soapy water at her and jokes that she’d been _nebrezhnyy_ , that he trained her better than that, and she makes a fond but indignant sort of sound and saunters off to the living room to watch television. Twice during the afternoon, Bucky looks up from his book and sees Steve out the window, but both times he disappears before Bucky can get outside to talk to him. Supposes it’s Steve’s turn to need a little space. 

That night, he lays beside Natasha, awake long after she’s fallen asleep, and runs reverent fingers over the Odessa scar, and the more recent one incurred in D.C. Takes reassurance from the knowledge that she is healing; so will he.

* * *

**Interlude III**

“Go see what all that noise is about, will ya?”

Steps out the side door into the alley behind the grocer’s. Four kids scatter back out to the street, probably expecting ten-year-old Bucky’s bear of a father instead of himself. They drop a trash can in their haste to flee, which makes an undignified sort of yelp as it hits the ground and rolls. Since that isn't a sound that trash cans usually make, he goes to investigate. 

“You okay?” he asks, peering inside. The boy wedged in the can glares sullenly back at him. 

“Fine.” He tries to wiggle an arm free and winces, so Bucky grabs him by the suspenders and hauls him out. He's smaller than Bucky, his hair might be blond if it weren't so dirty, he’s got a split lip and his nose is bleeding, and he’s cradling something in his left arm that he puts down on the ground as soon he’s back on his feet. It's a brindled alleycat — a kitten, really, judging by its size — and it fluffs itself up and hisses at them before it darts away. 

“They were kicking it,” the kid explains. “And Ma told me I couldn't bring home any more strays, so…” he gestures vaguely in the direction the cat disappeared in.  Bucky notices that it left some deep scratches on the kid’s hand as a sign of its thanks. 

“You okay?” he asks again, pointing at the scratches. The kid shrugs as if just noticing them. 

“It’s nothing.” He blots his lip with the edge of his sleeve. “Happens a lot.” Looks at him sort of embarrassed, coughs, holds out a hand. “Thanks… um…?”

“James,” he answers. “But everyone calls me Bucky. Tell me apart from Pa.” Makes a face; it's a stupid name. The kid smiles back at him. 

“Steve,” he says. “I got my father’s name too. Well, his middle one.”

They shake hands. Then Bucky puts his arm around Steve’s thin shoulders and guides him toward the shop door. “Wow. You need a sandwich or something.”

Steve tries to slide out of his grip. “I should get home. Ma’ll be worried.”

“Sandwich first,” Bucky says firmly. “C’mon, Pa and I were just making lunch. Anything you want.”

Steve does his bit to look after neighborhood strays, and Bucky does his. 


	4. Epilogue

**Bucky.**

Steve’s car is gone when they wake up. Must have decided to really leave and come back for it sometime during the night. Bucky makes a call (“What am I,” Stark Junior gripes from the other end of the phone, “your PA?”), Natasha programs the information provided into the computer built into her cuff, and since it’s a cold but clear day they take the motorcycle. Natalia’s arms around his waist keep him grounded. Wind on his face makes him think of roller coasters on the pier, of blizzards and whiteouts on empty stretches of tundra, of clinging to the sides of train cars. Feels good; feels like being alive.

They catch up to Steve at a highway rest stop in New Hampshire, waiting in line for coffee. Steve doesn't do undercover well. Even if he hadn't stood out from the stiff set of his shoulders or the fact that he's the only one dressed in shirt sleeves and not shivering with cold, the knot of jittery pre-teen girls pointing and giggling about “Captain America!” make it painfully obvious. 

“He could at least have taken the coat,” Natasha grumbles, miming the action of turning the collar up. She falls into the line to order while Bucky keeps walking, grabs his friend by the elbow, and steers him to a table in the back corner of what passes for a cafe. 

“Who are you,” he says by way of greeting, “and what have you done with Steve Rogers?”

Poor Steve nearly spills his coffee and gapes at him like he’s seen a ghost. It's almost— no, it's most definitely comical, but he can't afford to break down and laugh until he’s said his piece. 

“Because the Steve Rogers I knew,” Bucky continues, dropping casually into the seat that puts his back against the wall, “never ran away from anything. Ever. Little punk didn't know how.”

It takes all of his self control to keep a straight face. Steve’s mouth works soundlessly for several moments before he eventually shakes himself out of his shock, and pulls out the chair to sit opposite Bucky. “I take it that means you're feeling better today?” he asks. 

“I didn't go crazy making breakfast again, if that's what you mean,” Bucky answers, shrugging. Earns him a weak smile. 

“That's good,” Steve says. “I'm glad.”

Natalia catches his eye as she picks up their drinks, and he gives her a small nod; safe to approach. She slides into the bench seat next to him, squishing him into the corner slightly, and hands him one of the cups. He sniffs it curiously before sipping. 

“What is this?” Doesn't smell as strong as coffee should, but then again, that could just be because it's a crummy chain shop. 

“Try it.”

He does. Raises an eyebrow at her. “It's good, surprisingly good, actually, but I repeat: what is it?”

“Mocha latte. Chocolate,” she clarifies, rolling her eyes. Bucky takes another appreciative sip and turns back to his friend. 

“Steve,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face any longer, “people put _chocolate_ in their coffee now!”

“Welcome to 2017,” Natasha says dryly. “You're very easily pleased, you know.”

“What a time to be alive,” he continues, ignoring her comment completely, or pretending to, at least; his lips curl upwards into that cocky almost-smirk that's starting to feel familiar. “You should try it.”

“Thanks,” Steve mutters, “but I prefer my coffee taste like coffee, actually.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but I can make an exception where chocolate is involved.”

“ _Very_ easily pleased,” Natalia repeats. She's hiding a grin of her own behind her hand. Bucky throws his arm around her shoulders, mindful of the weight of the metal, and leans back against the bench, getting comfortable. 

“What can I say? You know me well, ‘Tasha.”

Natalia raises an eyebrow at the pet name. Steve, who had been about to sip his own drink, puts his cup down, drops his head into his hands, and dissolves into silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. Bucky pretends to be affronted. 

“It wasn't meant to be funny,” he sniffs. 

“I know,” Steve eventually manages to respond. “I know, it's just… it's still weird. It's still very, very weird.”

“You know what else was weird?” Bucky responds. “When you left Wilson and I crammed into that tiny car while you planted one on—”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” Steve says quickly, “that’s not going to happen again.”

“And why not?”

“It’s— well— doesn’t matter.” Steve collects himself (with some apparent effort) and sits up straight again. “And no,” he adds in response to Natalia’s very interested stare, “I am not going to explain. You have your secrets, I have mine.”

She chews her lower lip for a moment, glances sideways at Bucky, then back to Steve. “Been thinking about that,” she says slowly. “Think you’re right. You and me, we’re better off without secrets between us.”

This time Steve does knock over his coffee; Bucky reaches out reflexively and rights the cup before too much of it can spill. “Natasha—” Steve says. 

“Don’t misinterpret this as an apology, Rogers,” she replies quickly. “I’m not trying to right something that wasn't wrong, I just want things square between us going forward.”

“I— Right.” Steve nods, hesitates, almost smiles, looks around them and then back to Natasha again. “So—?”

“Not here.” She finishes her drink and gets smoothly to her feet, glances meaningfully at Bucky, and then smirks at something over Steve’s shoulder. “Watch your six, Rogers.”

He turns around in time to see the teenagers freeze in the process of approaching him. Bucky hides his laughter in his mocha latte and Natalia pulls her hood up around her face and disappears out the side door before they can recognize the Black Widow, too.

* * *

“I knew her,” Bucky says, watching the trees fly by out the passenger window. “Before D.C., I mean. Before Odessa.” 

Steve seems surprised; not by the revelation, probably (hopefully), but by the fact that Bucky brought it up at all. 

“Not going to wait for Natasha to talk about this?” he asks. 

“Nope.” Natalia took the motorcycle, they’ll meet her back in the city. “Easier like this. You can't stare at me like— do you know you get the same look on your face that your Ma did when we’d come in after dark and she’d be standing in the doorway just glaring at us as we walked up the street, waiting for us to explain ourselves?”

“I— what? No I don't.”

“Got it now.”

“I do not. I—” Steve glances up at the mirror, and must have gotten a glimpse of his expression because he stops abruptly and just says, “Go on, Buck.”

Silence settles like the snow. Deep breath, then:

“HYDRA made a deal with the Red Room, sent me in to train Natalia and four other girls in hand to hand combat. Or at least, that's what they told me I was there for. I think the Red Room was running their own experiments though. Wanted to see how effective HYDRA’s methods had been, find out what it took to break me. I kept waiting for them to put me back in cryo, or back in the machine, because HYDRA must have warned them that I had been known to become unstable, but they didn’t, and I started to remember… not who I was, exactly, but what. That I was a man, beyond just being another one of HYDRA’s tools.

“The lessons I gave changed. I didn’t even notice until Natalia pinned me during a sparring match and asked me why I was smiling. She was the youngest, you know, but of the five girls, she was the only one who could ever best me. We started working one on one. Few weeks after that they gave Natalia a mission and sent me as her backup, which wasn't protocol for either of us. I guess they liked how we worked together. Or wanted to study it, or something. I didn’t know how to work like that, Natalia had to teach me to blend in. Must have been a real sight. The spider and the ghost, hiding in plain sight in this five star resort hotel in Gothenburg, dressed to the nines, sipping champagne, mingling with the guests, right alongside the… the target, who wasn’t any older than Natalia. And when it was over, when we’d done what we were sent to do and we were just sitting in the hotel room waiting for extraction, we—” He breaks off. For all that he’s joked and boasted with Steve about women in the past, it’s different with Natalia, and what she means to both of them. He exhales shakily, says, “Sometimes I think I shouldn’t have. She was only nineteen. But she was fierce, and strong, and beautiful, and she… she understood. She didn’t want to be a tool either. I loved—” he stops, breathes, corrects himself. “I love her.”

Silence again. Then Steve sighs, a little relieved, a little resigned. “You didn’t pick an easy woman to love, Buck.”

“Maybe to you,” Bucky replies. “Easiest thing in the world for me.”

“I guess there is something to be said for shared life experience,” Steve says. Then, after a moment: “I do want to understand, Bucky. I’m trying.”

“I hope you never do.” Steve opens his mouth to protest, so Bucky puts his left hand up between them. “You _can’t_ understand, Steve, and I don’t need you to. All I’ve ever wanted you to be is my friend.” 

Steve is silent for a long moment after that. Then he says simply, “I feel like I’ve had this conversation before.”

“Have we?” Bucky turns and blinks at Steve, who chuckles. 

“Not with you,” Steve explains. “Natasha.”

Bucky blinks again, breathes out a laugh, and says, “You gonna tell me your story now?”

“Might as well,” Steve says. “Got four hours before we’re home. Plus she can’t yell at me here.”

“Yell at you?” Bucky asks, settling back in the seat. “Yeah, this is definitely a story I need to hear.”

* * *

**Steve.**

Natasha is already in the garage when they pull in, leaning casually against the bike with Bucky’s book in her hand. “How do you read this?” she says as they approach, without looking up from the page. “It’s barely English.”

“Bucky doesn’t read books,” Steve explains. “He devourers them.”

“I should give him Tolstoy.”

“Please don’t. I’m pretty sure he’s read them and he’ll only quote it more often.” Steve gestures to the book currently in her hands. “What is that one, anyway? I never asked.”

She dog-ears the page and closes it to check the cover. “Cymbeline: King of Britain.” 

“It’s Shakespeare,” Bucky sniffs. “Neither of you two has any culture.”

“You can say that again.” Tony steps out of the elevator and surveys the group, finally settling on Steve. “What is this? I send you out to retrieve one ex-Soviet assassin and you come back with two?”

“Call it a going out of business sale,” Natasha says with a smirk. 

Bucky grins at her. “I like the sound of that.”

Tony looks between them again and quirks an eyebrow. “Is there something going on here that I should know about?”

“No,” the two of them answer in unison. Steve shrugs helplessly and adopts what he hopes is an innocent expression. Tony doesn’t look entirely convinced, but eventually he turns and waves for Bucky to follow him.

“Fine, you don’t want to tell me, don't, it just means I break up this little party that much faster. Come on, Cyberboy, I’ve got some new software for your arm, should help improve reaction time. Might as well get the upgrade out of the way before you settle in. Maybe you can hit him twice next time.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but walks dutifully to the elevator with Tony, leaving Steve alone with Natasha. She tucks the worn book back into her knapsack and looks at Steve. “You two get a chance to talk?” she asks.

“We did.”

“You still have questions?”

“Just one.” Natasha raises an eyebrow, inviting him to continue. “What happened?”

She sighs and looks at the ground for a moment. “I guess that is the only question that matters.” Takes a deep breath and looks up at Steve again. “We had about a year together. There was a mission in São Paulo, and they sent Yelena with us. She was younger than me, she was supposed to watch. If things went south, James was supposed to get her out.”

“He didn’t?” Steve guesses. 

“He did. And then he came back for me.” Brief pause; Steve’s not sure, but he thinks there was a crack in her voice, the barest trace of an accent. “He disobeyed orders, he broke his programming. HYDRA couldn’t stand for that. They were waiting for us, back in the Red Room. The machine was humming when we walked in. He knew what it meant.”

The conversation from the Maine safe-house replays in his head. _“Wish I didn’t.”_ Steve swallows hard. “They wiped your memories, too.” 

“No,” Natasha intones solemnly. “They took James’ memories. They took the Winter Soldier back with them. But they still had to punish someone. So they made me watch, and they let me remember.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything, just puts a hand on her shoulder, and she leans into the gesture for a moment— then she straightens up, shrugging off his touch, and tries a smile. “The rest you know. I was with S.H.I.E.L.D. three months later. I never stopped looking for him, Steve, but I think I knew I wouldn't be the one to find him. It should have been you, and I've been grateful every day that you did, that you brought him home.”

For a moment, he almost protests — he didn't find Bucky in Bucharest, the CIA did — but then he remembers who he's talking to, and realizes she may not mean it so literally. 

“We’re all in this together,” he says instead. “Don't let them leave us out in the cold, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. Then she gives him a wide smile, one Steve has seen on her face in the last few days, but not yet directed at him. “Yeah, something like that.”

* * *

“Wow. I mean really, this is incredible. Watching the two Super Soldiers spar is one thing, and don't get me wrong, very entertaining, but this—” Tony gestures down at the gym floor where Bucky and Natasha are dancing across the mats, trading blows. “This is _art_.”

“They work well together,” Steve agrees. Won't that make an interesting note in his report to Fury. He hasn't talked to Tony about their history yet, doesn't know how much he’s guessed at over the last few days. Maybe this is what the agents in the Red Room noticed that brought them together in the first place. Maybe they were always meant to be a team, and the serum and cryostasis allowed Bucky to live into her time. It's the kind of thing his Ma would have found meaning in, the workings of fate. Personally, Steve wasn't inclined to think along the lines of meant-to-be. 

“How long have they been at this?”

“About two hours.”

Tony whistles. “Who’s winning?”

“No idea.”

Bucky narrowly avoids being kicked in the jaw, catching her foot on his arm and throwing her off, forcing her to roll as she hits the floor. 

“My money’s on Natasha.”

“You know I don't gamble, Tony.”

“You don't know how to gamble. Last time I brought it up you tried to bet eight whole dollars.”

“It was what I had in my wallet.”

“Yeah, and you seemed to think it was a lot of money.”

On the floor, Bucky catches another of Natasha’s punches and uses the momentum to throw her over his shoulder, where she lands, gracelessly but still balanced, in a crouch. 

“ _Ustupat, Natalia?_ ”

“What are they saying?”

Steve shrugs. “I don't know, it's mostly been Russian.”

She bounces to her feet just in time to jump back from a wide uppercut and the tighter boxer’s punch that follows it. She blocks a few more blows before suddenly switching to the offensive, which seems to be working until Bucky gets a hold of her wrist, twists it behind her back, and pulls her flush against him. 

“ _Ustupat_ ,” he says again, not a question this time. (“Translation?” Tony asks, and FRIDAY cheerfully provides the word “yield.”) Natasha’s answer is to hook one foot behind Bucky’s ankle and push off hard from the floor with the other, sending them both crashing to the ground. She quickly twists around and presses her forearm against his throat. 

“Yield, _Soldat_.”

“Gladly.” Bucky cups the back of her head with his right hand, winds his fingers into her hair, and pulls her down to kiss her. Tony’s jaw drops. First he gapes at them, then he turns and gapes at Steve. 

“Are you seeing this?” he asks. “Or do I have to quit day-drinking.”

Steve smiles and ducks his head, giving them at least a semblance of privacy. “No, you're not imagining things, Tony, they've been— ah…”

“Fonduing?”

Now it's Steve’s turn to gape at Tony, who shrugs nonchalantly and explains, “Dad used to get drunk and tell that story at Christmas parties.”

“I sort of hate Howard right now,” Steve says, turning a sullen gaze back to the grating of the observation deck. Then he looks up, eyes wide and shining, prompting Tony to raise an eyebrow at the sudden change in his demeanor. 

“What’re you thinking, Cap?”

“I have half an idea,” Steve answers. “I need the internet, and then I need your help with something.”

* * *

**Natasha.**

The thing that history books, museum biographies, even the internet had so far failed to capture about Steve Rogers was that he could be incredibly petty and vindictive when it suited him, and that somehow he would manage to flash that charming smile at you and talk you around the subject and make you think that whatever it was that he had in mind was a good idea. Suddenly, Natasha feels like she has a better insight into James’ childhood years. 

“Look me in the eye, Rogers,” she drawls, “and tell again why I should go through with this convoluted scheme of yours knowing that it's probably payback for lying.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“Because I know how much you value honesty,” she says. “And because I heard about Coney Island and the zip line to the train car.”

Steve finally looks up from his sketch pad, and sure enough, he’s grinning at her, the bastard. “Seventy plus years and he’s still holding that grudge?” She gives him a look; he puts his hands up in defeat. “Fine. He’s got a right, given what happened. But just so you know what you’re getting yourself into—”

“You’re deflecting,” she tells him, cutting him off. 

“You know I’m not good at that,” Steve answers. “Deflecting or payback.”

She eyes him carefully. “Yes, but you have a disturbingly steep learning curve.”

He snorts with laughter but lays down his pencil to give her his full attention. “It’s not payback.” The way he says it, she thinks there might be a _not against you, anyway_ hanging on the end of that thought. Well, she supposes, that’s one way to always be honest.

“What exactly is it then?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, I’m a little hurt that you don’t trust me,” Steve tells her. “Man needs a reason to be nice to his friends?”

“I tried to buy you a nice coat,” Natasha points out. “You didn’t take it so well.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “That’s kind of the point. This is… well, don’t misinterpret this as an apology, Romanoff,” he smirks, and she rolls her eyes, not sure if she ought to be offended for mockery, or flattered that he’s mimicking. He’s got that look again, too, little lift of one corner of his mouth, mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes. “But I want to give you guys this. I want Bucky to have a chance to go out and do the things he liked to do before the war. I want you to have a chance to do those things in the first place. So just follow the directions in the GPS. I had Tony program it into the Miata, I know it’s your favorite.”

 _Disturbingly steep_. Damn him, he’s winning. She has no argument about the car, and her best counter to his plan is weak at best. “You do know how difficult it will be for the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier to just go about an evening out unnoticed, don’t you?”

“And here I thought that was your specialty.”

“You made a reservation.”

“Under Natalia Romanova.” Steve looks so proud of himself that she almost feels bad about her sudden and fierce desire to punch that smug grin off his face. As it is, she only manages not to because that name, in his voice, leaves her totally frozen. She takes a deep, steadying breath, ready to concede on all points but one.

“Steve,” she says slowly, “I’m going to let this one slide, because your heart was in the right place, but let me make myself clear: There will be consequences if you ever attempt to use that name for me again.”

Maybe punching him would have been better. The resulting shift in his expression is just about the same. “I just thought… I mean, Bucky calls you… you know.”

“It was the only name I had at the time,” she explains. “Just like James was the only one he remembered. But I’m not that girl anymore, Steve. And that’s for the better.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, seems to think better of it, and after a moment tells her instead: “Well, all the more reason you should go out tonight. Give Bucky a chance to get to know Natasha.”

She is spared answering by the arrival of the soldier in question. He pushes the door open somewhat more forcibly than is strictly necessary, crosses his arms (sleeveless just to make a more imposing impression, she suspects) over his chest, and fixes Steve with a glare that could cut ice. “Is this supposed to be some sort of payback?” he demands.

Steve only laughs at him. Bucky makes a rude gesture with his left hand and looks rather offended when Natasha can’t help but laugh, too. 

“Oh no,” he says. “He got to you.”

* * *

"Does it bother you," Natasha asks, easing into the traffic on the west side highway, "when I call you James?"

They've been mostly silent up until now, enjoying one another’s company without having to speak. He purses his lips, considering, eventually says, "No. It's my name. 'S'always been." There's a touch of the old Brooklyn drawl in his voice again. "Just never had cause to use it until you sussed it out."

A blue Honda swerves into the lane in front of them, makes them miss the light. Natasha chews her lip for a moment, debating with herself if she ought to press him, while she waits for it to turn green. "I guess what I mean is... how do you think of yourself? As James? Or as Bucky?"

Eyebrows furrow and she catches a glimpse of him frowning at his reflection in the wing mirror before the light changes and she turns her eyes to the road again. "Both," he says after a while. "Neither, sometimes. I mean—“ Stops, rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. "Steve calls me Bucky, and it feels like... home. You call me James, it's not the same home, but it's the same feeling. I belong there, with you. With Steve." He gives her a sudden grin. "Even 'Cyberboy' is starting to make me feel all warm and familiar.”

The smile fades when she doesn't respond. "It bothers you."

“Not your names,” she clarifies. “Mine.” He still looks puzzled. “I hollered at Steve,” she admits, “for calling me Natalia.”

“Why?”

“I thought when I came here no one else would have to know what I’d been, and I could start over. Of course it sounds stupid now that I say it.”

“Lady Liberty out there in the harbor would beg to differ,” Bucky points out. He twists around in the seat, trying to look in the direction he indicated. “I can’t believe— Steve found the only car on the planet smaller than that stupid Volkswagen. How far uptown are we that I can’t see her?”

“72nd.”

“How far uptown are we going?”

Natasha glances at the map. “178th. What I mean is that I don’t need my past following me around for everyone to see.”

Bucky makes a face and tries to get comfortable in the seat again. “I’m a part of your past.”

“The only good part,” Natasha says, smiling sadly. “That time I had with you, that’s ours, James. It doesn’t belong to anyone else. And Natalia belongs to that time. To you.” 

Bucky hums agreeably to that; Natasha chances a glance at him and finds him borderline smirking. “So you’re asking me to protect you.”

“My God, you do like to hold on to things,” Natasha says. “Didn’t we close that conversation in 2005?”

 “I think,” he says, reaching over to tug affectionately on a curl and then tuck it behind her ear, “I can manage that.” He grins that stupid, infectious grin at her for another long moment— and then he pulls back, wrinkles his nose, and says, “Wait a minute. 178th… that’s the George Washington Bridge.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“He’s sending us to New Jersey,” Bucky explains.

“What exactly do you boys have against New Jersey?”

“It’s… Jersey,” Bucky tells her, as if this explains the offense.

Natasha shakes her head and glances at the computerized map on the dashboard. “Well, last chance to turn around if you want to bail.”

Bucky purses his lips, sighs, says, “I don’t supposed we’d ever hear the end of it if we did.”

“No.” Natasha is already preparing to change lanes. “Don’t suppose we would.”

Looking distinctly unhappy about it, Bucky settles back into the passenger seat again and digs into his pocket for his cell phone. “Alright, Steve, very funny. Where are you sending us?”

* * *

**Sam.**

Steve’s phone has been ringing roughly every 5-7 minutes since they’d arrived at the bar. It’s on silent and stuffed in Steve’s jacket pocket, so he can’t hear it, but Sam can see Steve’s hand twitch towards it every time it happens.

“Just answer it,” he finally says, exasperated. “I assume that after that I might have your full, undivided attention for a few minutes.”

“I’m paying attention,” Steve protests.

“What was the last thing I said?”

Steve splutters.

“Answer your damn phone.”

He does. Sam watches the amused smile turn into a smirk turn into shoulder-shaking laughter. He raises his eyebrows. “Now you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer but all that comes out is more giggles. Sam shakes his head as Steve hands him the phone; giggly really is not a good look for Captain America. He gets his answer in the form of a series of text messages, all from one James Buchanan Barnes.

**Seriously, Steve? Jersey?**

**We’ve past Fort Lee, where you sending us?**

**Paramus. Oh, very funny.**

**I suppose you think you’re terribly clever.**

**Pick up your damn phone, punk.**

The phone buzzes again while Sam’s reading. “What’s it say?” Steve manages. 

“‘I hate you,’” Sam reads. “What exactly did you do?”

“I found the perfect place to send them,” Steve says. “The whole menu is fondu.”

Sam looks at the phone again, and then he says, “Steve, that doesn’t explain anything. Who else is is part of ‘they?’ Why would you send Barnes anywhere that isn’t serious psychological counseling? And why, for the love of God, does fondu make you giggle like a schoolgirl?”

“Ask Tony,” Steve says, waving off his comments and taking his phone out of Sam’s hands. “He’ll probably tell it better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 07/09/17 to reflect that Bucky and Natasha's last mission together for the Red Room was in São Paulo (previously written as Monaco). If that sounds like it might be a reference, you're right. More set in this universe coming soon!


End file.
